


Rogers & Barnes: Partners

by triedunture



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forehead Kisses, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Men Crying, Mentions of homophobia, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Undercover as a Couple, mentions of acephobia, off screen baddie death, temporary paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky have to pose as a couple for a mission. Nat insists it really is the only option. She's checked. </p><p>The complication: unbeknownst to even Natasha, Steve and Bucky's friendship has been rocky ever since Bucky confessed his tender feelings and Steve left him out in the cold. Can asexual, completely-in-love-with-his-angry-best-friend Steve complete the mission and win Bucky's heart? </p><p>(The answer is yes. Yay!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rogers & Barnes: Partners

"No. I'm not doing it," Bucky says with a shake of his head. Steve opens his mouth, but the look Bucky shoots his way makes him reconsider. He's seen that look before in tenement kitchens and on Nazi catwalks; Bucky's impossible to talk down once he's got that look on his face. 

Natasha groans and tosses her folder of intel on the conference table. “We don’t have a choice. This is the only way to get close to the target. We need access, and that means—”

"Did you not hear me? I can say it in six other languages if that’ll help." He glances at Steve again, then just as quickly looks away. Gauging dangers, Steve guesses. 

Steve steps between them, always the first one to make peace between teammates. “All right, okay. Buck says he’s not in, he’s not in. We’ll get someone else.” He eyes the hastily sketched layout. “Although I’m having a real hard time believing this couples’ retreat for men is the only place we can get eyes on this guy.” 

Nat shrugs with her usual careless calm. “It is what it is. Should I bring in Clint?”

"Not enough time. Is Sam on this coast today?" Steve pulls up the team roster on his phone. No dice. "Damn. Well, there’s always Thor."

Bucky holds up a hand. “Whoa, wait. You’re going through with this plan?”

"It’s the only one we’ve got," Steve says. "Maybe Thor won’t be the best at infiltration, but we can always, uh—"

"Play him as the strong, silent type." Nat gives a firm nod. 

Steve works his eyebrows in frustrated agreement. “Sure. Exactly.” 

Bucky snorts. “The file says this is going to be really mushy stuff. You need someone in there who knows you inside-out, who can convince them you’re really together. The game’s over the second Thor opens his mouth.”

"If only we had an agent who’s known Cap for years," Nat deadpans. 

"Hey, easy. Buck isn’t responsible for every mission," Steve says. 

"Except he seems uniquely qualified for this one," Nat counters. 

Buck crowds his mouth over to one side, his old nervous habit when he’s trying to find words. “I just don’t think I’d….” He peters out.

"It’s fine. You don’t have to explain," Steve says. He's tiptoeing around broken glass here. 

Nat mutters something about kid gloves under her breath. Bucky’s nostrils flare. Steve knows _that_ look too. He knows them all. Fat lot of good it does him, though. 

"All right. I’ll do it," Bucky growls. 

Steve catches his hot stare across the table. “You don’t have to,” he says carefully.

"A job’s a job," Bucky says, and Steve flinches at that, drops his gaze back to the work at hand. 

Less than two hours later, they’re strolling through a private vineyard on their way to the retreat’s introductory mixer, hand in sweaty hand. Steve can't quite tell who's more nervous. 

"Bucky," Steve says low, for his ears only, "about what I said the other week in Berlin, about needing some space to think—"

"We don’t have time for this right now," Bucky says, clipped. "I told you how I felt, you didn’t speak to me for a month. Message received, Rogers."

"But Buck, I—" 

"How about this? When we’re done pretending to be boyfriends, we can go back to pretending to be friends," he snaps. 

Steve’s heart sinks. For a second, he wishes he could go back in time so that when Bucky says, "I love you," Steve could lie and say, "I don't love you back." 

Because the facts, as far as Steve is concerned, are these: though he loves Bucky with all his heart, loves him a hundred different ways, they can't be together. Not the way Bucky wants. The problem boils down to sex. Bucky loves it, craves it, can't get enough of it, and Steve? Steve can't stomach it.

Growing up, there hadn't been words for the thing. You had the Catholic church in one ear talking about purity and sin, and the other ear was filled with dirty whispers from the neighborhood boys, the filthy jokes in blue magazines, the sounds Buck made with the girls he brought home to their shared apartment with the thin walls, the crushing onslaught of what passed for normal. Steve wanted to be the same as any other red-blooded American man, but he wasn't. Then there was his constant sickness, his smallness, his artistic daydreams. Throw in the way he felt about Bucky—and later Peggy—and everything was even more confusing. He'd even thought briefly about taking holy orders just to escape the expectation of sex, but old Father Rynne had looked across the confessional screen and said, "Steven, have you honestly felt the calling? Because the seminary is for those who want to serve, not those who wish to hide." 

Steve couldn't lie to his priest. He couldn't lie to Buck either, but telling him the whole truth was a bridge too far.

The truth. It had been the first thing Steve'd used the internet to search out once he'd woken up in the future. A Shield tech had taught him the basics, showed him the way around a laptop. 

"Everybody has one of these now?" Steve had asked. 

"Almost everybody. And if you don't, you can always go down to the local library and borrow one," she had said. 

Since he didn't know how—or even if he could—cover his tracks on the Shield computer, Steve had taken the subway to the main branch on 5th Ave, filled out a form, and received a loaner laptop for one hour. And he typed something into that search bar that he'd never asked anyone aloud: _what is a person who can't want sex?_

The internet had answered his question, gave him a word. Asexual. What a relief it was, what crystalline pleasure in knowing he wasn't the only one. But his hope had deflated just as quickly. Pages and pages of information revealed what Steve had feared: it still isn't easy, it still isn't talked about, it still isn't accepted. Ninety years and Steve can't outrun the damn thing. 

And here's Bucky, putting himself on the line and hoping Steve feels the same—and Steve can't tell him how _he_ feels without ruining everything. Because Bucky isn't like him, and they wouldn't fit together, and as much as Steve would like to explain why, he can't face Bucky's disgust—or worse, pity. Eventually, he wants to tell his oldest friend his oldest secret, but he needs hours to explain—a lifetime, maybe—and they don't even have a minute to spare for their own problems.

Steve glances at Bucky's scowling face as they walk together. He wishes they could there was a way for them to be together—really together, as boyfriends, without any of the other stuff that he knows Bucky needs. But what can he do?

As they approach the edge of the party, Bucky transforms. His spine straightens, his eyes go soft, his lips spread in a welcoming smile. "Hey there," he calls to the name-tagged manager type. "Gosh, I hope we’re not late. Stevie always gets us lost." He squeezes Steve’s arm. "Not that I mind," he laughs. 

"Our reservation is under Rogers," Steve says evenly. No need to play coy for this operation; Steve is very recognizable, Bucky even more so lately. The target will know who they are, but so will everyone else. It's a pressure tactic, one Steve hopes to heaven will work. 

The manager consults her clipboard and gives them a cheery nod. "Of course, Misters Rogers and Barnes. Right this way." She leads them into a sweeping tent aglow with hundreds of white lights on strings. Soft music plays from an unseen source. About two dozen men of varying ages are milling about with glasses in hand, chatting politely. Steve curls a hand over Bucky's on his arm, a silent communication: I'll take the right visual sweep if you take left. Their heads swivel in opposite directions. 

It's a small gathering, a sort of couple's retreat for men who want to 'reconnect with their partners' according to the glossy brochure. Somehow—Steve doesn't quite understand it—this means drinking wine with other men, doing intimacy exercises involving lotion, and lounging around the picturesque wilderness of the Poconos in luxury cabins. Nice work if you can get it. Unfortunately, they've got a different sort of job. 

"Your nine," Bucky murmurs quietly, and Steve looks where he's indicated. Their target is standing near a stand of potted junipers, a frail slip of a man with flaxen hair and a thin face: Peter Gibbs, formerly Pietro Dyatlov of Hydra, currently in the employ of Doctor Doom, the Sinister Six, and a few other men on the top of Shield's Most Wanted. As Steve watches, he laughs at something his conversational companion has said and places his hand delicately on the back of another man standing at his side. 

"Great," Steve says under his breath. Gibbs' husband is massive, a barrel-chested giant with a reddish beard and eyes only for his partner. "Divide and conquer?" he asks as they walk toward the couple. 

"You're running the show," Bucky says with a peevishness that does not become him. 

Steve glances in his direction. Buck looks good: not quite cleanshaven, just artfully stubbled; his hair brushed and pulled back into a fashionable knot; simple, black, and expensive-looking clothes. But the grin is pasted on his face, a near-parody of what a happy boyfriend should be. 

Steve clears his throat and says, "If you can't do this, say so and we'll abort."

"I'll get the job done. Just don't expect me to like it," Bucky hisses. Then, as they approach the small group of men, Bucky turns on his megawatt charm. "Fellas! Don't suppose someone can tell us where to get a drink in this place?"

Peter Gibbs looks over at the intrusion, and his eyes latch onto Steve's face, then Bucky's glinting silver hand on Steve's arm. His jaw jumps once, but otherwise his pokerface remains remarkably intact. It's his husband who reacts first.

"Wow, if it isn't the guys we see on the news all the time." He sticks out a meaty hand, and Steve shakes it. "I'm Giancarlo and this is my husband, Pete. No offense, but I didn't know you two were an item. Did you know that, Pete?"

"No," Gibbs says with only a mild grit to his voice. "I did not." 

"Well, it's not something my boyfriend and I advertise," Bucky says as he accepts his own handshake. "I'm sure some of you understand. The limelight isn't for everyone, or everything."

A few of the men—the ones in slick suits and diamond tie pins—voice agreement. "Work is stressful enough," one chimes in. Steve wonders what constitutes stress in their world.

Gibbs takes a small sip from his glass of ruby red wine and says, "Giancarlo, perhaps you could show our long-lost hero where the bar is kept?" 

"Sure thing, sweetheart. Come on, Mister— Uh, should I call you Bucky like they do on TV?"

Bucky ambles away with their target's husband, slapping a friendly hand to his shoulder. "Better than Mr. Barnes. Makes me feel my age." Their laughter is drowned by a new, swelling song which causes the remaining couples in their group to sweep away to the dancefloor. Steve stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to Gibbs with a cold smile. 

"I'm guessing you don't want to make a scene."

Gibbs downs the remainder of his drink. "If you say anything about my work in front of my husband, you blackmailing piece of—" 

"It won't come to that. Will it?" Steve dips his head lower as if they're just two pals chatting through the din of a song. "Seems like a good man. And you lied to him all these years." The files Nat had handed over were very clear: the target's spouse was in the dark. Leverage, Nat had said with a smile. Twists Steve's stomach, this sort of work, but they need the intel. 

Gibbs glares at him with a seething fury not seen at many cocktail parties that Steve's attended. "Call me what you will: a traitor, a crackpot, a Nazi—"

"You are a Nazi, Gibbs. Hydra is literally a Nazi organization." 

"—but you can never say I haven't been a loyal husband. Giancarlo is my world. Please," he says, turning his empty glass in his hands, "at least allow me the dignity of handing over the information you're after of my own free will." 

Steve quirks an eyebrow. "Easy as that?"

"As long as you promise to take me into custody without my husband witnessing it. He—he doesn't need to see," Gibbs says.

The stirring in Steve's stomach isn't sympathy, exactly. More like pity for Giancarlo, who's been in the dark all this time. Kind of reminds him of someone he knows. He swallows. "Fair enough. The documents?"

Gibbs looks around furtively. "Not here. I can have them in hand by tomorrow."

"I hope you understand I'll have to keep a close eye on you until then."

"Of course, _Captain_ ," Gibbs sneers. "I'm sure you and your little brainwashed lapdog will enjoy stalking me during my last hours of freedom." 

Steve ignores the jab about Bucky; he won't give him the satisfaction. "You really have no remorse? People are dead because of the things you created, Dyatlov." 

"Do not use that name here," Gibbs whispers, then spots his husband and Bucky weaving through the crowd with hands full of glasses. "Ah, darling. Thank you," he says, taking a fresh drink. 

"So, Bucky," Giancarlo says as he clinks his glass to Gibbs', "silly question, but how did you two meet?"

"Oh, surely we all know the story," Gibbs says. His eyes crinkle in the corners as he smiles at his husband, but Steve can detect the slight twitch of discomfort there. He's attempting to disengage. "Perhaps we should—"

"It's all right. It's nice to talk like this. Like normal people," Bucky says. His eyes sweep over to Steve, then away. They didn't have enough time to agree on a cover story, but Steve trusts him to conjure one up. Bucky tells their audience, "Childhood sweethearts, you know? From the moment he tried to get between me and some jerk who was hassling my little sister…."

Steve remembers that afternoon; he remembers most afternoons because his memory is like a photo album that never gets edited. But he'd had no idea Bucky remembered too. It was so long ago, and it wasn't as if that was the moment that cemented their friendship. That came later, a few summers after, when they were thrown together on the same ball team in the back lot behind the pharmacy. God, if Bucky remembers that fight— Is it possible Bucky has really loved him since they were kids? Since before they even knew what making time was?

"That boy was three years older than you and about two feet taller," Steve says quietly. Bucky turns and looks at him. For a split second, his face twists like he's been punched in the gut, but he modifies his easy smile into something suitably fond. 

"Yeah, that's right," he says. He turns back to his captive audience of Giancarlo. "Just a shrimp, Steve was. Bruised like an overripe peach, but wouldn't say uncle for a hundred dollars. Hard not to fall for someone with that kind of heart." He sips his drink and avoids Steve's eyes. 

"Wow, that long ago, huh?" Giancarlo asks, and it's an echo of the question pinging around Steve's head. "What was that like, back then?"

"Not easy," is what Steve contributes. His hand finds Buck's and squeezes, hoping to telegraph some kind of understanding. "But at least we always had each other."

Bucky gazes at him with sugary-sweet adoration, but the moment Giancarlo turns to Gibbs to say something about breakfast, Bucky's nostrils flare. He leans in as if to press a kiss to Steve's neck, but ends up whispering in his ear: "Don't give me that shit." 

"Isn't it true?" Steve whispers back, resting his hand lightly on Bucky's hip for verisimilitude. He wants to remind Bucky, even if it's petty, that they've always been a team. 

Bucky doesn't seem pleased to have that pointed out for him, but he's a professional. When Giancarlo's attention returns to them, they're standing with arms wrapped around each other's waists and smiles stretching across their faces. The perfect couple.

The sound of a fork pinging against a wineglass rings throughout the tent. Steve turns in tandem with the others to see the hostess—organizer, he mentally corrects himself, the same woman who'd checked them off her list—smiling broadly. 

"Gentlemen," she says, "this weekend is an opportunity to reestablish and reaffirm the bond between you and your partner. Some of you have the wisdom of many decades together—" She raises her glass to the most elderly couple in the tent, two white-haired men dressed in near-identical tweed suits. "—and others are still quite young. Well, time is relative." She tips her glass in Steve and Bucky's direction, and the chuckles follow. Steve gives the audience a small wave, but Bucky hams it up with a salute back at her. 

The woman continues once the laughter has died down. "I hope you find your accommodations comfortable; we have an early day tomorrow. For those of you partaking in the communication strengthening workshop, the guide will meet you at—" 

Steve turns to Bucky, letting the rest of the opening remarks go in one ear and out the other. "Are we set?" he whispers.

"Yeah, Nat made sure we got into all the group activities Gibbs signed up for. We'll have him covered." 

"Good. He says he'll go quietly, just needs twenty-four hours."

"You believe him?"

Steve steals a glance at Gibbs, who is holding onto his husband's hand with such a tight deathgrip that his knuckles are turning white. "I don't think he's going without a fight," Steve murmurs.

"—followed by the clambake and the concluding avowal ceremony at the lake, weather permitting," the organizer finishes with a wide smile. "Have a wonderful night, everyone, and we'll see each other in the morning." 

The party breaks up pretty quickly after that. It seems like the majority of the men, the ones in the suits that Steve can picture in high-power jobs with busy schedules, just want to be alone with each other. Right. Who wouldn't want that, Steve thinks with a trace of bitterness.

"Come on," Bucky says, tugging him by the hand. "This way." 

Steve follows his lead down a winding cobbled path until they come to a small 'cabin' which looks more like a nice suburban house than anything else to Steve. It's only a few yards away from Gibbs' place; Giancarlo even waves goodbye to them as they shut their front door. 

Once they're in, Bucky goes to their luggage, which has arrived ahead of them packed with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. They have a bionic ear, heat trackers, and assorted cameras and bugbots to pick up anything they might miss. 

Steve helps assemble the tech, but it's only to keep his hands busy. He registers the layout of the place, double-takes at the heart-shaped bathtub only partly concealed by a glass half-wall. Steve turns back to Buck, a smart alec remark about the tub on the tip of his tongue, but Bucky is still ignoring him. Steve suppresses a sigh. 

Bucky jabs a metal tripod into the carpet near the bedroom window. "Hand me the battery pack," he says.

Steve does as ordered and notices the pains Bucky takes not to let their fingers brush. His heart twitches again, harder and more painful than before. He figures this might be their only moment of privacy for awhile, and if he wants to hash it out, now's the time. "Buck," he says quietly, "I don't think you're being fair here."

Bucky looks up from his work with a wild stare. "What, now _I'm_ the bad guy?" His hair is hanging in his face; his loose ponytail is coming apart. "You've got to be kidding me." 

Steve busies himself with switching on the heat sensors. "Well, I'm not the one who's throwing away decades of friendship over some hurt feelings," he says.

Bucky's eyes bug out of his head. "Wow. Sorry I'm not over the moon about working this mission with someone who hates my guts."

It's like being bitten by a viper. Steve draws back, eyes wide. "I don't— I've never hated you. How could you think that?" 

"What was I supposed to think?" Bucky says, dropping his gaze back to his task. "I told you how I felt—how I really fucking felt for once in my life—and you took off like a coward." 

Anger flares up inside Steve, hot and orange. "Excuse me for not falling into your arms without a second thought," Steve bites out. "I didn't know you were expecting to get exactly what you wanted exactly when you wanted it and damn the torpedoes." 

"Don't you go puttin' words in my mouth," Bucky says. "Don't you dare do that."

Steve will not raise his voice. He will not jeopardize this mission. But like hell will he let this go. Even if he weren't asexual, he wouldn't be obliged to please anyone. Why can't Buck get that through his thick skull? "So it's your way or the highway, right?" Steve says. "We're not even friends now because that's, what? Not good enough for you anymore?" 

"It wasn't _me_ that did that, Steve. It wasn't _me_ that left that room in Berlin. You couldn't even look me in the eye after what I said." Bucky's voice cracks as he thumps his fist against his own sternum. "I couldn't get to you at all: calls, texts, emails, nothin'. It was complete radio silence. Do you have any idea how I—?" He shuts his mouth and shakes his head furiously, staring down at the equipment at their feet. Steve can see those blue eyes turn red with unshed tears. 

Oh god, he never meant for this to happen. "I'm sorry," Steve says softly. "I didn't know what else to do."

Bucky wipes his forearm across his face, brushing back his loose hair as an excuse instead of his tears. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "You could've said something. Like 'no thanks' or 'sentiments not returned' or even 'get lost,'" he mutters. "Would've been an ideal time, before I tried to kiss you."

Steve almost laughs at the word 'tried' because they definitely _did_ kiss. Steve had been frozen in place hearing those words tumble out of Bucky's mouth. Nothing but a stunned whisper of Bucky's name had passed his lips, and that seemed to be enough to give Bucky the go-ahead. 

Not that Steve blames him. Steve had even kissed back, a little. 

It was only when he'd felt Bucky's touch—that warm right hand sliding under his tactical armor and shirt to touch bare skin—that he'd broken the kiss. Mumbled some excuse about needing time alone. And then he fled without another word. 

Looking at Bucky now, it's clear he's remembering it the same way. He lifts his eyes to Steve's. "Look, I get it. I should've known. You don't like guys." He turns his attention back to the final adjustments of their tech. "Sorry I pushed you like that. It won't happen again." 

Steve sits there for a moment, stunned. It had never occurred to him that Bucky would think he was—the word's a joke at this point— _normal_. 

"Buck, I— It's not that I don't like men," Steve says. His hand finds Bucky's, covering it and the device he's fiddling with all together. It seems strangely important to touch him. They're walking a thin line and Steve's not sure he knows how to balance on it. "I mean, there were women— Peggy, I did love her. But I can love men too." 

Buck looks up at him, the confusion in his eyes falling into black despair. "So you can love lots of people, just not me," he says.

Steve's mouth falls open. No, no, no, he wants to say. But all that comes out is a strangled, "Bucky—" 

"Perimeter breach," the sensor in their hands chirps, "perimeter breach. Warning, warning. Perimeter—" 

They're on their feet in an instant, guns that had been concealed in their ankle holsters now in hand. Steve turns to find monkey-esque robots with glowing red eyes pouring into the romantic fireplace. Their metallic tails flick like knives as they move, skittering, across the cabin floor.

"Hydra drones," Steve says, biting back a curse. He'd been so preoccupied, he hadn't even noticed their approach. "Gibbs must've deployed them remotely."

"I hate these things." Bucky raises his sidearm. 

Steve slaps it down. "Don't shoot! If someone hears, our cover's blown." 

"God damn it! Fine." Bucky holsters his gun and launches himself at the nearest chattering monkeybot. Steve wrestles two off his own ankles, watching his fingers. These things have teeth. 

"Why is it always—nggh!" Steve grunts as he twists off a bot's head in a shower of sparks. "Creepy robots?"

Bucky's smashes his foot down on another glinting adversary. "Cheaper than people, I guess," he says with undisguised bitterness. 

Steve doesn't know what to say to that, so he just dismantles the onslaught one by one. It involves a lot of bashing, and he'd be worried about making a ruckus that might draw the attention of innocent civilians, but luckily there's a rhythmic quality to the fight that he's pretty sure will be mistaken for nothing more than enthusiastic sex. Well, at least it's good for something, Steve thinks.

Finally, they're surrounded by scrap metal and piles of smoking, sputtering motors. Buck's laid out on his back, tossing one last ex-bot off his chest with a grunt. Steve offers him a hand, and he actually takes it, letting Steve haul him back to his feet. "Thanks," he says with only the barest hint of distrust in his voice. 

"Better check on our friend, let him know we got the message," Steve says. 

"Right." Bucky picks his way through the monkey wreckage to their set-up. The bionic ear—Stark-made and capable of picking up audio over 300 yards away—plays out the scene in Gibbs' cabin for them. Giancarlo is calling his husband to bed, oblivious.

Steve puts his back to the wall and moves the gauzy bedroom curtain aside just a hair with the muzzle of his gun. Bucky mirrors him on the other side of their window. Steve peers across the way: the other cabin's window is lit from within. Gibbs is standing there, watching them. 

"Let me do the honors." Bucky raises his middle finger to the window and holds up the decapitated head of one of the monkeys. A quick glower, then Steve allows the curtain to fall closed again. 

"We should keep watch in shifts. He may try to bolt or send something else after us," Steve says. Their instruments are registering all the right stuff: two heat signatures, one crawling into bed next to the other. Gibbs is where he should be for now. 

Bucky eyes him and drops the monkey head to the floor with a clang. "Yeah. Sure," he says, and the easy camaraderie of the fight evaporates, leaving behind the stale hurts of their interrupted conversation. Bucky turns away, and Steve almost reaches out to touch him, but drops his hand instead. Bringing this up had been a mistake; it had made Steve sloppy, and he can't afford any more missteps. 

"Whoever's not on watch should get some sleep," Steve says.

They both look at the bed at the same time. It's huge, easily the biggest Steve's ever seen. He didn't even know they came that big. 

"I could—"

"Why don't I—?"

They blink at each other. God, Steve can't imagine a lifetime of this awkwardness around his best friend. They used to be on the same page, always. He clears his throat.

"Let me take the first few hours. You've probably been on your feet since Tuesday." He may not have been ready to talk to Buck, but that didn't mean he hadn't kept tabs on him and his missions.

"Yeah, just about," Bucky says, then looks at the bed again. "But you've been on the clock longer than I have."

So Buck's been checking the roster too. Steve drops his gaze at that, head bobbing. "I'm fine." He settles in on the floor, pushing a few piles of broken drones out of the way with his feet. The equipment monitors are close at hand where he can watch everything. 

"Go to bed, Buck," Steve says. It's late, and they're tired, and they need to pretend to be a happy, refreshed couple in a few hours. 

"Fine," Bucky says, a little gruffly. He peels off his nice, fancy clothes mechanically, as if he doesn't even care about Steve's presence. He drops his trousers and is about to pull back the bedsheets when he seems to decide against it and turns back. His body is carved hard and sharp these days, strong and powerful, but he looks somehow vulnerable standing there in just his boxer shorts. 

"Are we okay?" he asks. "Are we going to be okay, Steve?" He sways a little on his feet as if exhaustion's finally caught up to him.

Steve is up and at his side in the blink of an eye. His hands go to Bucky's shoulders, squeezing gently. "Hey, come on." He ducks his head, locks eyes. Bucky stares back at him, silent and miserable. Steve can't help but tuck a wild strand of hair behind Bucky's ear, although guilt crawls over him when Bucky shudders at the touch. He knows he should resolve to never touch Bucky again, but he can't seem to make it stick.

"We're okay," Steve says, a whisper. "Once this case is closed we'll have a long talk, I promise. But right now I need you to get some rest."

"You never hated me," Bucky says, but it's a question somehow.

Steve bites back what he really wants to say, which will just open a can of worms. "Never did. Never could," he says instead, and guides him to bed, pulling back the covers for him. 

Bucky stares into the middle distance. "I'm sorry I'm in love with you. I never asked for it." 

Steve's mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. They can't do this now. 

Bucky avoids his gaze and slips under the sheets. "Goodnight, Stevie," he says, gathering the pillows behind him.

"Buck—" Steve leans forward and—without even understanding why—cups a hand around Bucky's jaw and places his forehead against Bucky's. His eyes slip closed. He just stays there for a moment, breathing evenly. The only sound Bucky makes is a small gasp followed by careful stillness.

When Steve speaks again, his voice is ragged and thin. "I'm sorry too," he says. It doesn't even begin to cover everything ( _I'm sorry you're going through this pain, sorry I can't make love to you like you want, sorry I don't have a way to make you understand._ ) but it's all he can manage. 

He pulls away quickly after that, turns back to his makeshift station. "I'll wake you in four hours, okay?" 

Bucky doesn't answer, and Steve can feel his eyes on him for a few minutes, but soon the deep sounds of his breathing fill the room. Bucky could always sleep at the drop of a hat if he knew Steve was there; he'd been that way ever since they were kids. 

Steve glances up from a monitor. Bucky's nestled in the pile of blankets, his face finally relaxed in sleep. He turns his attention back to the instruments and digs in for a long watch. Four hours go by, then six, and he lets Bucky sleep on through the night.

So what if Bucky takes it the wrong way when he wakes up in the morning? Steve knows this isn't about coddling him, not that Bucky will take that for an answer. Conversation is stilted, still sore, so Steve sticks to talking about the job.

"Agenda?" he asks over their plates piled high from the communal breakfast buffet. He keeps his voice down. All around them, couples are sleepily shuffling into the center's lodge for the meal. Not too difficult to pull off their quiet conversation; most of the men are whispering loving nothings into each other's ears anyway.

Bucky wolfs down another sausage link and shrugs. "Couples' connection class, whatever that means. Gibbs and his spouse are taking it, so we are too." 

"That might be a good place to lean on him. No chance of him calling in more muscle, not if he wants to keep the husband out of harm's way," Steve says. "And he really does, from what I can tell."

"Hmm." Orange juice gets gulped down Bucky's throat like it's going out of style. The way he attacks his food may result in some unwanted attention, but Steve likes watching Buck eat his fill. It's something he never saw enough of when they were small. 

The empty glass thumps down on the table. "What I don't get," Bucky says, "is how a guy like that can care for anybody. I mean, he's a shitbag any way you slice it. But he has this one soft spot for his sweetie? How's that work?"

"People are capable of all sorts of things." Steve butters his toast thoughtfully. "I'd like to think it means there's some ability for good in everyone, even the worst of us." 

"Yeah?" Bucky asks, adding more sugar to his coffee. "Well, I wish Gibbs could've been less of an asshole to more than one person on this planet."

Steve hides his smile with a bite of toast and picks up the alarmingly slick brochure that had been left on their table and all the others. He flicks through it while chewing until he comes to the page detailing the retreat schedule.

He swallows. 

"Buck?"

Bucky is busy attempting to stab his fork through a bite of egg, pancake, and bacon all in one go. "What?"

"This 'connection class' we're taking today—you haven't been briefed on it?"

"We shipped out here on a moment's notice; I didn't have time to go over every detail. Why? Are they going to make us sit in a circle and hold hands or something?"

Steve steels his jaw. "It's couples' massage." 

Bucky stops chasing a piece of pancake around his plate and looks up slowly. "As in…?"

"Couples massaging each other," Steve says.

"Right. Great." Bucky's fork falls with a clatter to his plate. He crosses his arms over his chest as if his appetite has left him forever.

Steve turns back to the brochure, coughing into his fist. "Says here it promotes intimacy and—apparently there are health benefits…." He trails off and looks up at Bucky, who's chewing the inside of his cheek and glaring at the remains of his breakfast. "We can beg off," Steve says softly. "Keep tabs on Gibbs from a distance."

"No," Bucky says firmly. "We're already here. It'd look too suspicious if we drop out now."

"We could always use a grain of truth as an excuse, say work came up."

"Look, I don't want to do this either." The venom in Bucky's voice startles Steve. "Let's just be fucking professionals and get it over with, okay?"

Steve blinks. "I never said I don't want to do it. I just thought you wouldn't be...comfortable."

"Of course I'm not comfortable," Bucky says in a low hiss. "Are you?" 

Dank, horrid guilt swarms through Steve's gut again. He knows this must be tearing Buck apart, but it's a necessary evil. "It's only touching," he finally says. "I've massaged you before. Like when your arm gives you trouble…."

Bucky sticks his left hand under the tablecloth, out of sight, as if that will make it go away. His eyes dart away and down, but not before Steve registers the slight dilation of his pupils. Guilt tendrils up into his throat. 

It's obvious that those touches weren't one hundred-percent friendly, not to Bucky. 

And not to Steve either, if he's honest with himself. Those nights, when Buck would come to him after a mission and shuck off his shirt with a groan and let Steve work his thumbs into the muscles at the base of his neck—those nights were as close as Steve's ever gotten to being perfectly content with his lot. Not sex, but a sweet intimacy he's never shared with anyone else.

Well. It had been nice while it lasted.

"All right," Bucky finally says. "Whatever."

Steve finishes his toast though it's ashes in his mouth.

The massage class is held in a small room in the main lodge. It's staffed by a smiling girl in medical scrubs, which Steve supposes is meant to lend her an air of authority. She directs the couples as they file in, telling them each to claim one of a dozen massage tables set up in neat rows. 

Steve and Bucky make a beeline for the table nearest Gibbs and his husband. Giancarlo wishes them a cheery good morning even as he unbuttons his gingham shirt.

"I told Pete I'd go first," he says. "He's always been a little shy."

Gibbs gives them the evil eye while his husband's back is turned, and Steve taps the space on his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one. 

_Soon_ , Gibbs mouths. 

The massage therapist in the scrubs directs one person from each couple to undress from the waist up and lie down on their table. There are colorful charts and posters about pressure points that she points to, going over them with the assembled men. Steve concerns himself instead with Bucky, who's pulled his black tee over his head and is now frowning and rubbing his left shoulder. 

"You okay?" Steve asks. 

"Fine," Bucky says quickly.

The masseuse starts playing soft, lilting harp music from a little speaker. Some of the guys in the room stare at Bucky's arm right up until the moment they catch Steve's glare, then they look away with red faces. Steve gets it, really; it's hard not to notice, the way it catches the light and shines. But like hell is he going to let Bucky feel like some sort of sideshow for these people. 

Okay, maybe he's taking the role of overprotective boyfriend a little too seriously.

"Hey, you awake up there?" The sound of Bucky snapping his fingers brings Steve back to reality. Buck's already laid out on their table, face down. The masseuse is making the rounds, directing each couple in the finer points. Steve figures he better get started, so he lays his hands on the jut of Bucky's shoulders. 

"Sorry. Just tell me if anything twinges," he says, and kneads his thumbs in deep.

God, Buck's like a rock. Every muscle is locked tight, hard and knotted under his skin. Steve's about to ask what the hell Bucky did to himself, but he realizes all at once: he hasn't been to Steve's place in almost a month. 

Steve's grip falters; why didn't Bucky just go to someone else? Couldn't he—? Damn it, he's been in pain all this time, _physical_ pain to boot. He should've found someone to rub his back for him. If Steve can't be the one to take care of him, then— 

"Sir?" The girl in the scrubs picks up his hands and rearranges them along Bucky's spine. "Try that," she says brightly. "Remember: be gentle." She leans down closer to Bucky's face. "Doing all right, sir?"

His response is a muffled grunt, so Steve figures he's fine. He keeps at it, working the knots loose along the line where flesh meets metal, drawing his palms up and over the broad plain of Bucky's back. 

He feels eyes on him and glances over to Gibbs, who looks away. 

_Don't think about him_ , Steve tells himself. Then, frustrated, _Well, don't think only about him. Just keep an ear open and use the rest of your brain for this._

Bucky deserves the attention.

With the feel of all that warm skin under his hands, Steve tries to remember the last time they did this in Steve's Brooklyn apartment. It had felt so good, that quiet evening: takeout, a movie, Bucky falling asleep on his sofa, Steve draping an afghan over him. What if that night in Berlin had led to this, he wonders. Of course, a half-naked massage is shorthand for "pre-sex" these days, and that's where Steve comes up against a wall. 

Maybe for Bucky's sake…? No, he's tried before. God, how he's tried. Men and women, it didn't matter. The old shame swamps him again, and Steve remembers being a small, scrawny boy laying awake on his cot the night before Dr. Erskine's experiment was scheduled. He had prayed that the serum would fix him. It hadn't. Nothing could. He loves this man, but he can't change who he is. 

Steve doesn't realize how light his touch has become, how tenderly he's caressing Bucky's back, not until he feels Bucky's lungs stutter under his hands. 

"Am I hurting you?" he asks quietly. His hands shape around the winged bones of Bucky's scapula, gentle, gentle, he's trying to be gentle. 

"N—" It comes out as a small sob. "No, I'm—" 

Steve's first instinct is to get them somewhere safe. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong, but they're in a room full of strangers and one known criminal mastermind. If Gibbs has done something to hurt Buck, to maybe poison him— 

"I've got you." He takes hold of his elbow, ready to carry him if need be.

"Excuse me, sir?" The masseuse's voice is a bare whisper under the harp music. She appears at Steve's side and takes his hands in hers, lifting them slowly from Bucky's prone form. "It's all right, this is actually pretty normal."

Steve sees now: there's a small collection of wet spots on the floor beneath Bucky's headrest. He's been crying. Another tear drops as Steve watches, joining the small patters on the carpet. A sniff, and Bucky turns his head to watch them. His hand wipes at his wet eyes, and he seems surprised at the wetness he collects there. 

"Would you like some privacy? To comfort him?" the girl suggests. 

Steve, bewildered, offers Bucky a hand and leads him to the door as unobtrusively as possible. The masseuse follows with Bucky's discarded shirt in her arms. 

She opens the door for them and guides them through it, whispering, "Massage can sometimes make us pretty emotional. A quiet environment where you're alone with your thoughts, a loved one's touch...it's not surprising. Take a moment, okay? Come back when you're ready." She hands Bucky his shirt.

The massage therapist seems so sincere and concerned, Steve can't do anything but nod. 

"Thanks," Bucky says, digging the heel of his palm into his eye once more, shirt held limp in his other hand. "Sorry."

"It's all right. It happens." And with a smile, she closes the door. With Gibbs on the other side.

"Damn," Steve sighs. Then, turning to place a light hand on Bucky's arm: "You okay?" 

Bucky sniffs. "Yeah. Come on, now we can search Gibbs' room for the files while he's stuck in there." He turns to walk down the hall, tugging his shirt back on.

"Wait a minute." Steve snakes his fingers around Bucky's arm to keep him in place. "Are you telling me you fake-cried to get us out of that class?"

"Yeah, of course," Bucky says, and his face is a puffy, tear-streaked mask. "Worked, didn't it?"

But Steve's known him forever. And he can see right through it, and his heart can't take it. "C'mere." He tugs on his arm. 

"What're you—?" Bucky's protests get muffled in Steve's plaid shirtfront. 

"We're hugging," Steve says, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder. "If that's okay." The therapist had said he needed to comfort Bucky, so that's exactly what he's going to do.

For a long moment, Bucky's as rigid as a wooden board in his arms. It's only when Steve doesn't let up that Bucky relaxes, little by little. His hands come up slowly to perch on Steve's hipbones, and that makes them fit together perfectly: the smell of Bucky's hair, the beat of his heart against Steve's chest, the way he burrows his face into the side of Steve's neck. 

"It felt nice when you touched me," Bucky says at last, "but I felt like shit for liking it. Didn't mean to blubber all over you."

"Not your fault." Steve swallows, runs his hand up and down Bucky's back. "It's been…." He draws his palm up to cup the back of Buck's head, keeps it there. "It's been a long few weeks." They stay like that, holding onto each other, for a while. Steve wishes this mission weren't so dire, that it could last.

"Okay," Bucky says after a few minutes, "I'm confused as hell." He pulls back a little to look Steve in the eye. His jaw is ticking, but not in anger. More like the stubbornness that's holding back more tears. "I thought we were going to forget about what happened in Berlin. But then last night— With you tucking me into bed like a damn kid—" He gestures helplessly at the empty hallway they're standing in. "Now this? What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, shifting his gaze away. 

"I mean, maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see, but sometimes it's almost like—" Bucky shakes his head. "Never mind. Let's find these files and get the hell out of here." He turns and stalks down the hallway. 

Steve has no choice but to follow. "You really think he just left them lying around in his cabin?" 

"I don't know, but it's worth checking out while we can," Bucky says. 

They exit the main lodge and find themselves in the beautiful sun-filled hills of the retreat property. Below, a river cuts a sparkling ribbon through the green earth; a small group is fishing on its banks. The cabins are even more striking in their luxuriousness in broad daylight, dotting the landscape around them. 

The path to Gibbs' cabin is clear. Everyone else is in their chosen classes and workshops. Still, Steve and Bucky stick to the edges, keeping as much to the shadows of the trees and buildings as possible. They arrive at the back door in minutes. 

"I've got the locks," Bucky offers, pulling a pick from his ponytail of all places. "Keep an eye out."

Steve does, scanning the treeline around them. He's working up to an offer to grab a burger after this mission is finished, but before he can find the words, he hears footsteps crunching through the leaves to their left. 

"Buck? You almost done?" Steve hisses.

"Not even close. Cover?" Buck looks around wildly, gaining his feet. They're sitting ducks here, nowhere to hide and the sounds of people chattering are coming closer. 

"Oh come on," Steve groans, because he knows what's coming. How does this always happen to him?

"Shut up," Bucky says, and kisses him. 

Steve's done this before with Nat once; people are trained to look away from a couple wrapped up in each other, it's just polite. Whoever's coming out of the woods will just see Steve Rogers and his boyfriend smooching behind some building and they'll let them have their privacy. They won't even ask why they're there. 

It's just a normal tactic. But Steve can't help but kiss Bucky back in a way he didn't do with Nat. 

The kiss is Berlin all over again except in reverse: this time Bucky is the reluctant one, and Steve is expecting it for once. What Bucky lacks in enthusiasm at first, he makes up in warmth, with the way his hands frame Steve's face, the way his body leans in when Steve's arms go around him. And Steve allows all the longing he feels to go into the touch of his lips on Bucky's. 

Distantly, Steve hears the people walking toward them—two men, if their hushed voices are anything to go by—stop and pause for a moment before shuffling away in the opposite direction. Diversion successful. 

He gives Bucky's lower lip what he thinks will be one last parting suck, but Bucky's mouth chases his, and before he knows it, they're kissing for much longer than the situation calls for. It's only when Steve's kiss turns tender and soft that Bucky pulls away. 

"Stop." Bucky places a hand on Steve's chest. His eyes are glued to their feet. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what? You kissed me first," Steve points out. 

"Don't—" Bucky swallows. "Don't kiss me like you mean it." 

Steve releases his hold on Buck like he's been burned. Damn it, he doesn't mean to hurt him any more than he already has; why can't he _stop_. "I'm sorry, I—" 

"Forget it." Bucky kneels back down in front of the door and goes back to work on the lock. 

It would take two seconds to get the words out: _But I do mean it._ And about another few hours to explain everything. Best to just leave it for now, Steve thinks. 

A metallic click. "We're in," Bucky says, and enters the cabin without even waiting for Steve. 

Gibbs' cabin is a carbon copy of theirs, right down to the heart-shaped bathtub. Instead of surveillance equipment, though, these rooms are filled with the usual things a vacationing couple would have: clothes strewn on the floor, toiletry kit slung over the door, pill bottles on the nightstand. (Steve examines the label; apparently Giancarlo is trying to lower his cholesterol.) 

"Okay, so what's this thing look like?" Bucky asks as he gingerly opens a dresser drawer.

Steve shakes his head. "Could be hardcopy, could be digital. Is there a laptop anywhere?"

Bucky runs his hand along the top of the bedroom door frame. "Bingo," he says, producing a small thumb drive. "Looks like this guy took hidey hole lessons from you."

A roll of his eyes is all Steve has time for before taking the drive and consulting his Shield-issue handheld. "Let's scan it and get it to Nat ASAP." He jabs the button on his device. Nothing. "Is yours working?"

Bucky checks his own. "Shit. He must be running some kind of jammer." 

"What's his plan? Is he just prolonging the inevitable?" Steve asks, pulling out his backup cell. Still nothing. He can't even give Nat a head's up warning with his emergency beacon. 

"Well, if every minute with his husband counts…." Bucky says with a shrug. 

"We better get out of here," Steve says at the exact moment the front door creaks open. 

Exits are blocked. Windows are—Steve remembers from his part of the brief—shatterproof for those pesky nor'easters. There's no way they're going to fit in the tiny closet or under the low-slung bed. The only option is to stand and fight.

Hands go fast to ankle holsters just seconds before Giancarlo enters the bedroom, chatting over his shoulder with Gibbs. 

"Oh, hello," he says when he sees them with weapons raised. "What—?"

"You were supposed to give me more time," Gibbs says sharply. 

"Time's up." Steve holds up the drive in his non-gun hand. "Let's just do this nice and calmly, Dyatlov." 

"Pete, sweetie? Is this some sort of joke?" The husband's eyes dart from stoneface to stoneface. It's the look of a man trying to make sense of it all. 

"To make a long story short, pal, your loverboy here is wanted for inventing a lot of bad things for bad people," Bucky drawls. "If I were you, I'd take a big step to the side and let us handle this." Steve glances at him, blinks twice. Bucky looks pale and sweaty. As if in sympathy, Steve feels sweat trickling from under his arms down along his ribs. 

"Inventing—? M-my husband's an insurance adjustor," Giancarlo cries. "There must be some mistake."

"No mistake," Steve says. Then, as an afterthought, "I'm sorry." His head is pounding, vision swimming. This isn't the usual adrenaline rush. Does he really feel that sick to his stomach over this case?

"At this point, you should both be losing feeling in your extremities," Gibbs says coldly, "courtesy of my newest neurotoxin, which needed only your skin contact with that drive I'd hidden for you."

Steve's hands shake and falter. Jesus, if his head had been on straight he would've never walked into a trap like this. The drive hits the carpet with a small thud, followed by his gun. 

"What the hell?" Giancarlo's voice is a distant murmur, a thousand meters under the ocean in Steve's ears. "Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Bucky's dropped to one knee, his arm wrapped around his middle. "He's Hydra," he manages to bite out. "Gian, run. _Run_." 

"You're _what_?" 

"Darling, please. Listen to me. These men, they want to paint me as a villain when all I've done is work my hardest so that you and I can live a safe, happy life." Gibbs gestures to Steve, and he's somehow very tall. No, Steve realizes, he's just standing, and Steve has crumpled to the floor. "Don't worry about them."

"But this is insane! You're— You've been working on some sort of mad science?"

Steve's vision tunnels, then clears. He can see Bucky on the floor a few feet away, facing him. "Buck—" His fingers scrabble towards him one inch, two, but then they stop. Steve can't make them move any further. His whole body is numb from the neck down. 

Bucky's lips part and his metal hand snaps on the floor like a fish in its death throes. His whole face is pinched in pain with the struggle to make his appendage cooperate. 

"It's okay, it's okay," Steve says even though it's not.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Gibbs stoop to pick up his gun. 

"What are you doing?" Giancarlo asks. 

"I am not an evil man," Gibbs says, and it's clear he's speaking down to Steve and not to his husband. "I've done nothing worse than this one has." He toes Bucky in the stomach with his loafer. 

Bucky snarls up at him, his metallic arm still shuddering with wasted effort.

"You had a choice," Steve grates out between clenched teeth. "He never did, you son of a bitch."

"I _survived_. Same as the Winter Soldier." He aims the gun at Bucky's head. "And I've done a better job of it." In that moment, Steve tells every cell in his body to move but nothing does save for a single tear of frustration running down his cheek. 

"Petey. Sweetheart. Please." Giancarlo is there, a massive shape clinging to the smaller Dyatlov. "Let's talk this over. You're scaring me."

Please, Lord, let the husband talk some sense into him, Steve prays. 

"Come here. Please, I have so many questions—" Their voices fade, and Steve realizes they've stepped into the other room, where their conversation can be heard only in muted whispers. 

"Bucky, Buck," he says, reaching uselessly, "you okay? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah. 'm fine, other than my arm hurting like hell." Bucky grits his teeth and gives a low groan. The side of his face is mashed against the floor, and Steve knows he's a mirror image of him. "It's like those nerves are stuck in some kind of feedback loop. Otherwise I can't feel a thing."

"Same here." Steve listens to the hushed voices in the sitting room for a moment. Unless he can figure a way out of this mess, their fate rests in the hands of those two men. After all they've been through, to have it come down to this? It's not fair.

"Pretty pathetic, huh?" Bucky says, clearly thinking along the same lines. "We live through the war, all that bullshit, and it's some loser with a god complex that does us in." 

"Don't say that." Steve locks eyes with Buck. There's not much else to look at except each other; Steve can't move his head at all. "This isn't the end."

"If you say so." Bucky's eyes blink redder and redder. "Hey Steve? I'm sorry about—"

"No, don't—" 

"Let me finish, damn it," Bucky says. "Let me— Just in case."

"Buck," is all Steve can choke out.

"I'm sorry I ever brought it up. Sorry I tried to make it with you. I wasted the last few days we had together being sore." He licks his lips, gives Steve a watery smile. "Wish I could take it all back."

"I don't wish that," Steve says, and it's suddenly very immediate, this truth. "Bucky, I love you too. I've been in love with you for so long."

Bucky's face transforms from softly crying hurt to open wonder. "What? But you—" 

"I never told you because I'm asexual," Steve says. "That means— Damn it, it means a lot of things, but for me it's like—" 

"No, wait. Go back," Bucky says. "You really love me?"

"Yeah. But I know you need sex, and that's not something I ever—"

"Steve, oh my god." Bucky gives a half-laugh, half-sob. "I don't care. It doesn't matter." 

Steve almost bristles. "What do you mean, it doesn't matter? This is my life I'm talking about."

"No, I know. Sorry, I mean," he shakes his head a mere centimeter, "if you want to be with me, however that looks, I'd take it. Steve, I'd take it in a heartbeat if you're the one offering."

"Maybe you're not understanding me," Steve says slowly. "I don't have sex. At all."

"Maybe you're not understanding," Bucky snarks back. "I like sex, but I love _you_."

"I—" Steve drops his gaze to the grey weave of the carpet. Shame swallows him up, not the shame of his nature, for once, but the shame of thinking Bucky would be any less than what he is: Steve's lifelong partner, always at his side. No matter what. "I'm sorry," he says. Steve raises his eyes. "I should've told you. But I was so afraid you'd think I was— That I was broken."

"Believe me, there's never been a damn thing wrong with you, Steve Rogers," Bucky says. His hand twitches closer, just a few inches away from Steve's fingertips. "Wish we had time. I'd show you, show you just how much I love you." His voice is a soft murmur. 

"Buck." Steve wills his hand to move with all his might, and his fingers just barely brush the warm, smooth metal of Bucky's. The voices in the next room get louder, a full-fledged argument. Any moment now, Gibbs could stalk back in here and put a bullet in both their brains. Steve curls his fingers feebly around Bucky's slack hand. If only he could hold him, he thinks, just once….

A gunshot pierces through the cabin, loud even from the other room. The sound echoes in Steve's ears for a long moment. 

Fear. He'll watch Bucky die. Again. Or worse, Bucky will see him die first, and he'll be alone for the end. Steve's eyes bore into Buck's. He can't even blink.

"I'm here," Bucky says in a whisper. "I'm here with you."

A man steps through the doorway, breathing heavily. Steve can barely see him from the corner of his eye. Another step, and it's clear: Giancarlo stands there looking small for such a big man, spattered in blood.

"The poison," he says dully. "It should wear off. I'm going to—" He places a hand over his mouth for a minute, as if to stifle a gag. "I'll go to the lodge and phone the police, I suppose."

"Thank you," Steve says, liquid with relief. 

"Don't thank me," Giancarlo says. "It was awful." 

He turns and stumbles out of sight.

Bucky locks eyes with Steve, lets out a long-held breath. "No take-backs just because we cheated death again," he says. "You love me. That's binding."

Steve laughs as his fingers and toes tingle with returning sensation.

______Epilogue______

There's a knock at the door. Steve looks up from his briefing papers, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"I'll share this pizza if you share that fuzzy blanket," Bucky shouts from the hallway. 

The door opens to reveal his grinning face. "Deal," Steve says, taking the large with mushroom and olives from him. 

If this is a routine that they've fallen into—the nights spent together at Steve's place eating greasy food and arguing over which movie to watch—then Steve thinks he might like routine. It's not so different from when they were friends, except now when Bucky inevitably falls asleep before the credits, Steve can fall asleep right next to him. When Steve leans in for a bite of the last slice Bucky's claimed, Buck can peel off a mushroom and feed him from his fingertips. When they sprawl out on the sofa, Steve can wrap himself around Buck and hold him as tight as he likes; Bucky won't complain. 

Their last mission may have been an unholy mess—Natasha and the Shield techs are still parsing through the files discovered after Gibbs' death—but at least one good thing had come of it. 

It hasn't been completely smooth sailing, this thing between them. Boundaries had been awkward (kissing yes, groping no, nuzzling sure, grinding no, pet names okay, dirty talk not so much) but Bucky has been good about minding them. Steve worries, sometimes, that Bucky will eventually need something Steve can't give him, but Buck always responds by saying, "I've gone without for a long time already. Don't go borrowing trouble."

Bucky is in the middle of devouring his crust, chewing and talking at the same time, discussing the relative merits of eighties movies that Steve still needs to see, when Steve leans in, cups Bucky's head in his hands, and presses a kiss to his warm forehead.

"What was that for?" Bucky asks, blinking. 

"For being mine," Steve says. 

Buck shifts closer, their legs tangling under Steve's ratty blanket. It's cozy, and it's theirs. "Does _yours_ get a back rub tonight?" he asks, all sweet eyes and plush mouth.

A helpless grin. "He does." 

Bucky brushes his hand into Steve's short hair, swoops in, and kisses Steve between his eyebrows. "Love you," he says quietly. 

He says it every night. Steve doesn't want to stop hearing it, not ever. "Love you back," he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to get this fic out in time for Ace Awareness Month, but these nerds gave me some trouble. Sorry! Steve as he appears in this story is a bi or biromantic, sex-repulsed asexual but there are tons of ways an asexual identity can be a thing. You can find more info and heaps of personal experiences about the ace spectrum by taking a look at the Asexual Awareness Month tag on tumblr. 
> 
> You can also find [me on tumblr](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/), but that is way less educational. 
> 
> I would more heartily recommend [BTI](http://bewaretheides315.tumblr.com/), whose help and beta prowess is quite unmatched.
> 
> Thanks for reading. It may be a little sappy and whatnot, but what asexual pretend boyfriend spy adventure romance isn't?


End file.
